


Retain for Future Analysis

by doctornerdington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Positivity, Closet Sex, Daddy Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mike is hot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Psychology, Rare Pairings, Sherlock is a Mess, but he's getting there, oops I made myself ship it, sexual healing, verrrrrrrrrrry mild but just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-26 15:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14405205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: Sherlock wondered – well. Maybe he’d always wondered. Maybe he’d watched Mike Stamford’s casually observant gaze, and maybe he’d liked feeling it on him. Maybe he liked the way Mike saw things that he couldn’t. Was brilliant in ways that he wasn’t. Maybe he’d seen his hands – careful, deliberate, underappreciated by the idiots at Barts – and wondered what else those hands might get up to. Maybe he’d thought about it, even. Thought about Mike’s body – his strength and his bulk – his delicious, unapologetic presence. That body could wreck him, probably. In a heartbeat. Probably.





	Retain for Future Analysis

Sherlock was tired: tired to the point of giddiness. He’d been at Barts for hours – _days_? Surely it hadn’t been days? Still, Molly had long since gone home. John was – well. John had made his choice, hadn’t he? Hardly his fault that he’d chosen wrong.

Sherlock immediately shook his head at his own obvious bias. Poor intellectual practice, replacing truth with preference. No. John had chosen well. Very well, even, despite his many (many) attempts at self-sabotage. Mary was superlative. Sherlock _loved_ her, even. Loved the baby. Loved – everything except the actual fact of their existence. Which made things difficult, rather. He sighed, rubbed his eyes.

He returned to his microscope, but his vision swam, light swirling with darkness: images imprinting themselves long past their apposite time.

He sighed again.

Perhaps dinner was in order? He hated to leave his work, but if efficiency was compromised, perhaps it was time.  John had taught him that much. He meticulously packed up his samples and placed them in the CryoMed, then returned Molly’s equipment to the various drawers and cupboards from whence it had been purloined.

He’d just finished wiping down the work surface, Molly having trained him well, when Mike Stamford strolled into the room.

Sherlock looked up. Mike was in shirtsleeves, no lab coat. Cuffs undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Working, then, or just finished. His forearms were – Sherlock swallowed with a click. Strong. Round. The man was round. Round face, pink-on-pale, rounded belly framed with braces, tie slightly askew. Kind, impish eyes. And just why, exactly, did he look so bloody amused all the time anyway?

His presence filled the room. He looked _so good_. Sherlock sucked in a breath: half in shock at himself, half something more.

He’s always been drawn to Stamford, in a strange, impersonal sort of way. Stopped to nod when he came by Barts if he could, only realizing later how unusual it was for him to seek out anyone’s company, however briefly.

“Where’s your shadow, then?” Mike asked. The question wasn’t cruel, as it sometimes had been from others, hostile Yarders most regularly.

Sherlock snorted. “Who can say? Fucked off to his wife, probably.” With Stamford, he didn’t even pretend. There was simply no point. The man was a marvel: perspicacious to the point of brilliance in an area entirely opaque to Sherlock. His mastery of character, of emotion, was fascinating.

Stamford nodded, knowingly. “Good. She’s good for him, I reckon.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She’s a menace.” Good lord. Did he sound – fond?

“Too right. That’s what I mean.”

Sherlock shot a sharp glance at him and reluctantly nodded. “Point. She’s quite something. At any rate.”

Stamford nodded and didn’t move an inch from Sherlock’s workspace.

Sherlock grew irritated.

“If you’re not here for John, what are you here for?”

Stamford shrugged, pulled on his tie, all affability and bumbling charm. He didn’t fool Sherlock for a second.

“Just checking in. You’re – alright – are you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, _daddy_. I’m very well. No need to worry about my sobriety.”

Stamford’s eyes flitted to his. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said seriously. He never rose to the bait. Never defensive, was Mike. Never reactive. Always so – so sure in himself. _Of_ himself. But never, ever showily so.

Sherlock liked it. He liked it a lot.

He noticed, too – of course he did – when Stamford’s hand tightened into a fist at the word “daddy.” Good fist? Bad fist? No matter. Reaction. Unusual for Stamford, and therefore interesting.

Interesting. He wondered – well. Maybe he’d always wondered. Maybe he’d watched Mike Stamford’s carefully observing gaze, and maybe he’d liked feeling it on him. Maybe he liked the way Stamford saw things that he couldn’t. Was brilliant in ways that he wasn’t. Maybe he’d seen his hands – careful, deliberate, underappreciated by the idiots at Barts – and wondered what else those hands might get up to. Maybe he’d thought about it, even. Thought about Mike’s body – his strength and his bulk – his delicious, unapologetic _presence_. That body could _wreck_ him, probably. In a heartbeat. Probably.

Sherlock wasn’t going to lie to himself. He was above that, surely. He’d been working with Ella on “being present in his body” – which wasn’t quite as tedious an exercise as he’d originally assumed, even if the language for it was intolerably insipid. Perhaps it was time for a practical demonstration of his progress. If Mike was offering—Sherlock was reasonably certain that he had read the situation correctly—and there was surely no harm at all in indulging in a little practice.

He glanced up. Mike was looking at his mouth.

Sherlock quirked a little smile.

Mike raised an eyebrow. He absolutely trusted Mike’s observational skill to understand his meaning – even though he wouldn’t have been able to, himself.

“... Mike?”

Stamford smiled and raised his eyes to Sherlock’s with deliberate slowness. “Mmm?”

“Is there anywhere you need to be just now?”

“Not really, no.”

“Or in the next, say, half hour?”

“Nope.” His lips pursed on the final consonant. Sherlock – shocked at himself – wanted to taste them.

Mike Stamford: easy-going, competent, comfortable, friend to all. He was everything Sherlock couldn’t be, but for all that, he never seemed to begrudge Sherlock anything. He was – he was kind, that’s all. A kind man. A kind man with powerful forearms, thick and strong, and a body perfectly, beautifully formed to counter Sherlock’s own insubstantial corporeality.

Suddenly, Sherlock wanted him quite desperately.

Locking eyes, Sherlock felt himself harden a little in his trousers. Unexpected. He hadn’t registered his response to Stamford as sexual before, but – but this new sort of attention (flirting? Was he flirting?) was definitely doing something for him.

Sherlock steeled himself. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Would you care to accompany me to the storage closet for thirty minutes of light frottage and mutual orgasms?” he asked in a rush.

Mike laughed out loud. “Always direct, aren’t you?” Sherlock had surprised him, but the proposal wasn’t particularly unwelcome. He looked at Sherlock assessingly. Each man flushed a little, looked away.

“Well, why not? Yeah.” He licked his lips. “I would enjoy that tremendously.”

“Excellent. Shall we?” Sherlock peeled off his latex gloves with a flourish and ran his fingers through his hair.

He wasn’t sexually inexperienced, despite what Mycroft might believe – but nor was he practised enough to perform with perfect confidence. Would Mike prefer his hair more carefully styled, or...?

He shook his head. Didn’t matter, did it? Mike was here. With him. By choice. Looking up at him expectantly, and smiling kindly – always kindly. His dimples. _God_. His dimples. Sherlock was going to lick them. He was. He was going to lick those dimples and wrap himself around that body and he was going to ...  His mind stuttered to a halt. What did he want to do, exactly?

As they walked down the short corridor, Sherlock closed his eyes and conjured Ella’s voice in his mind. _Deep breath in, and out. Scan your body. Observe its condition. Your body is worthy of attention and care, Sherlock. Any unusual sensations? Can you name them? Are they pleasurable? How so? Listen – try to listen – to what your body is telling you it desires. Are you brave enough to listen? Are you brave enough to act?_

He thought he might be, now.

Mike pulled out his keys, rolling his eyes and bodily shoving Sherlock aside when he offered to pick the lock – more efficient than digging for keys, in fact – and then they were inside the small room, where it was warm and dim and suddenly very quiet.

Mike’s eyes were on his lips again, Sherlock noticed. Neither man said a word. Stamford cleared his throat; removed his glasses.

Sherlock’s heart beat hard in his chest, but when he reached across the infinite divide to pluck at Stamford’s tie, his hand was entirely steady. The tie, in fact, was attached to the man, and Sherlock drew him in.

Stamford came along willingly enough, but resisted gently when his face was just inches from Sherlock’s. “Sure, are you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Sherlock nodded. “Very.”  He pulled Mike in again and softly, very softly, he pressed his mouth to Stamford’s. Rocked his head slightly from side to side, feeling the slide of lips-on-lips. Feather-light. He shivered.  

“Good,” Mike replied against his mouth. He gently ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms and kissed him again, firmly, this time. Like an anchor. The effect was soothing –it was slipping into a pool of warm water – and Sherlock felt his body relax where it had been tense: his shoulders, his jaw. It felt good. Pleasurable. It was riveting, actually, but with none of the violence of his usual pursuits. Something worth thinking about, but later – oh, later.

Mike was warm against him, radiating heat, and he felt that heat transfer, taking up residence within his own body: in his chest and his belly and face. His cock twitched again, began to fill, and he pulled to the side, trailing lips over cheek and nuzzling into Mike’s neck. The textual variation from faint stubble to baby-soft throat occupied him for a time; Mike’s hands stroked up and down his back as he explored with lips, then fingertips. Only the beginnings of a hardening erection against Sherlock’s thigh expressed any urgency. This was so much slower, so much gentler than he had expected. It gave him time to listen. It gave him time to _enjoy_. He was shocked by how good it felt; by how much he liked this -- well, he supposed it was a kind of tenderness.

He _adored_ being surprised. It was so rare.

Other things he was somewhat surprised to discover he adored: Mike’s hands, Mike’s arms, Mike’s shoulders, Mike’s skin, Mike’s lips, Mike’s chest, and Mike’s belly. Very possibly also the way Mike smelled. He suspected there were other parts of Mike he might also adore, but he had yet to discover all of them.  He wanted to, though. His body wanted to.

_Are you brave enough to listen?_

God yes, he was. He was.

Sherlock splayed his hands on Mike’s sides, fingertips on hips, palms on sides, on belly, the bony flesh of his hands smoothing over the crisp white cotton of Mike’s shirt, the firm bulk of him: cool fabric on top and heat of flesh beneath. He felt the rise and fall of breath under his hands. Reassuring to count respirations. ...3, 4, 5. Playfully, he toyed with Mike’s braces, lightly tracing the path they cut across his body, tickling across ribs, front and back. Mike squirmed under his touch, licked his ear, and Sherlock shocked himself by laughing out loud. Pulled back and Mike was smiling up at him, twinkling and fond.

Mike’s eyes—his eyes were easy to meet. No challenge there. No pretence. Is this what it felt like to be _liked_? Sherlock wasn’t sure; it had never been as easy as this before.

He hooked his fingers under Mike’s braces. “I quite like these, you know,” he said as he pulled them down over Mike’s shoulders, taking the opportunity for an unsubtle grope. Shoulders solid under his hands, and perfectly curved to fit his palms, fleshy and lush, handfuls and handfuls of _Mike_.

“Do you?” Why did he sound surprised? “You never said.”

“I’m saying now.” He pulled Mike in for another kiss, this time tracing his lips delicately with his tongue, then dipping at last to mouth at those delicious dimples. A bead of satisfaction coalesced in his chest. Oh—that, that pleased him. Desire and attainment: gratification. Pleasure. So simple. He nosed again into Mike’s throat, just behind his ear. This place, he thought, is a harbour. Here is a place for privacy and thought. He snaked his tongue out to lick again. Mike’s hands were in his hair, and a shiver ran through them both.

Sherlock wanted more.

Nimble fingers removed his tie, then made short work of the fine buttons on Mike’s shirt: collar first – he stooped to lick the salt from a hidden crease there – then cuffs – he licked each thick wrist, finding them subtly different in flavour, but equally absorbing. He lingered there for many minutes, knowing from regrettable past encounters that this sort of sustained attention was strange and often unwelcome, but he could not seem to tear himself away from the patterns of blue veins, the milk-white skin with its subtle overlay of fine hairs, the feel of it under his lips, the taste. And Mike seemed content to let him take the lead in this. Perhaps he would pay for this indulgence later. Perhaps Mike would mock him, spread stories, tell tales – but on balance Sherlock thought it unlikely.

From wrists he moved to fingers: substantial, like all of Mike was, and just as sensitive, just as satisfying. Quite suddenly Sherlock wanted to take a part of Mike’s body inside his own, and he sucked his right index finger into his mouth, tonguing the whorls of fingerprint on the pad, then swallowing it down to the joint.

Mike, who had been watching the proceedings with an almost bemused sort of interest, clutched at Sherlock’s shirt with his free hand and pressed up against him as Sherlock sucked.

Sherlock smirked around Mike’s finger. He’d noticed that his mouth often had a strong effect on people, one way or another, and he was gratified to feel Mike’s cock, firm and hot against his hip. He was pleasing Mike. There was evidence. He could feel it.

 _Pay attention. What do you desire_?

Mike grabbed his arse with his free hand. Sherlock groaned. Audibly. Audibly, he groaned.

“Oh fuck.” Mike swore again. “Your voice.” He fucked up against his thigh. “You utter beauty of a man.”

Sherlock let go of Mike’s finger. Dipped his head and again captured Mike’s mouth: warm and responsive.

In a flash, Mike was cupping his arse with both hands, all restraint gone. Fingers pressed into flesh, working him in slow, circular patterns that dragged their hips together, apart, together, apart, together – not quite thrusting. A slow, dirty, relentless grind. It left Mike panting against his chest, and Sherlock breathless with want. He pressed himself more insistently against Mike’s bare chest; Mike spread his legs, and Sherlock pushed a knee between. Their kisses were open-mouth. Indulgent and wet.

“I want” – Sherlock gasped, then all but whimpered as Mike pulled him in tight again. He was so hard. So hard. Couldn’t think. Dizzy with it.

“What?” Mike spoke between frantic kisses.

Sherlock dipped his head and bit his freckled shoulder, once, hard.

Mike swore.

He wanted contact. More contact. Wanted to feel Mike’s skin under his hands and against his own bare skin. He lunged forward into Mike and pushed him, hard, back against the closed door behind them. Under his mouth, Mike chuckled, sounding delighted. That would not stand, Sherlock thought. Amusement would certainly not stand – not at this juncture. He nipped at Mike’s lips, at his jaw, then withdrew slightly, and his hands were everywhere, pulling off Mike’s open shirt, mapping the topography of chest, shoulder, belly, throat. 

“I want to feel you. Your skin. God, your skin, Mike.”

Mike tipped his head back against the wall and Sherlock attached himself to his throat, to his shoulders, sucking great mouthfuls of flesh, laving, biting. Living flesh inside his mouth. Mike liked him enough to allow it.

_Are you brave enough?_

He couldn’t –

“Get your shirt off,” Mike said breathlessly, hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair. “Get it off.”

Sherlock ignored him, intent on sucking blood to the surface of Mike’s left pectoral: the colour. Oh _fuck_ , the changing colour...

He was yanked away before he’d finished, but he didn’t have time to complain: Mike was ripping at his shirt, pulling it up and out and over his head, heedless of buttons, heedless of damage to expensive fabric, heedless of everything except their need.  

As his shirt came over his head, Mike took advantage of his momentary blindness to bodily move him, flipping their positions so that Sherlock was spread against the wall, naked from the waist up, with a shirtless Mike Stamford propping him up. Sherlock was disoriented; almost dizzy.

It wasn’t gentle anymore, and it wasn’t soft. Mike pushed into him, skin to skin, and he was anchored: fixed in pleasure. Surrounded by it. Only sensation: only the feel of Mike’s arms around him, sturdy and sure. His bare skin against him, his mouth on his, his cock hard on his thigh. Harsh breathing. Salt. Musk. He thought he might actually lose consciousness at the intensity of it. Might die of it.

_Are you brave enough?_

His face felt hot. Scarlet. Sherlock bucked against Mike, pushing his cock as hard as he could against the restraining weight of Mike against him.

_Are you?_

Mike sucked in a breath; muttered a curse. “Christ, Sherlock. You’re so –”

Suddenly, Mike stilled. Pulled back a little, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder and breathing hard. “I need to check in. This is – this is still fine, all of it?”

Sherlock blinked. Tried to think. Were they – talking now? He thought he ought to be annoyed by the question, by Mike’s implication that he was somehow fragile, too uncertain to know his own mind. But instead, he swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. The events of the past few months had amply demonstrated that he was exactly that. At least sometimes. And Mike – it mattered to him.

Sherlock buried his face in Mike’s neck: found his harbour. Kissed him there.

“It’s all fine, Mike,” he said, voice like a sigh. “Better than fine.”

Mike smiled turned wolfish. “It is, rather, isn’t it?” He kissed him again on the mouth, and Sherlock thought it was rather sweet, rather chaste, until he felt skillful fingers working at his flies.

“Yours too,” he gasped, and Mike laughed again.

“Of course.”

Seconds later, trousers and pants were out of the way, and Sherlock felt Mike’s bare skin against him – mouth to mid-thigh – at last. Mike’s hot, hard cock pressed into his thigh, and his own pushed into the silky skin of Mike’s belly.

Sherlock thrust against him once or twice. Groaned. He wasn’t quiet.

“Like that, do you?” Mike asked.

Sherlock could only groan again, his capacity for rational thought and speech rapidly dwindling in the face of overwhelming pleasure.

Mike pushed him into the wall, holding him steady and firm, then reached down and grabbed for a leg, hitching Sherlock’s thigh up around his waist. The change in position brought their bodies even closer, made their long, grinding thrusts impossibly intense.

 “Tell me what you want, Sherlock.” Mike was desperate against him.

_Are you brave enough?_

“Fuck. This is so good. I’m so close. Just… tell me how to get you off.”

_Are you?_

Sherlock felt delirious. His skin was on fire. His cock ached. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t –

He lunged in for a kiss, messy and wet, speaking and panting, “Just this, just this, Mike. _Fuck_. Just, don’t stop, please. Please... Please. Just. More.”  

Mike grunted. He reached between them and took hold of Sherlock’s rigid cock, pumping it hard and quick as Sherlock bucked and whined, pulling himself closer to Mike, feeling sensation build and build within him – until it was the only thing, the only thing, and he could not contain it, could feel it fill and exceed him, pumping out, spilling out in pulses of pure, perfect bliss.

He was lost to it for a time. Dimly, he heard Mike swear under his breath, felt the motion of him stroking himself, now, furiously fast, hand slick with Sherlock’s come. Heard him groan and go still, then felt warm ropes of semen paint his bare thighs. That, too, was pleasure. His lips were at Mike’s throat. Easy to kiss. His little harbour.

They stood panting against each other for long minutes.

Then Mike shuddered against him, and straightened up. Without his anchoring weight, Sherlock slid slowly to the floor. Mike huffed a breath; grabbed for the tissues on the shelf and slid down beside Sherlock, neatly wiping his hand and Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock barely noticed. He could hardly keep his eyes open, fatigue and hunger and pleasure finally overwhelming him.

“Mike,” he tried – his voice was like a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Why did you…” he trailed off. Did he want an answer?

Silence.

Mike nudged him with his shoulder. “Hmm?”

“Why did you agree to this … with me?”

Mike smiled gently up at him and touched his hand to Sherlock’s jaw, tilting his head to make sure he was listening. “I’m not a complicated man, Sherlock. I like sex. And I like you.” His eyes were very serious, and very kind.

“Do you?” Sherlock was too tired to mask the taint of incredulity in his voice.

“Of course I do, you ridiculous man. What’s not to like, hmmm?” He leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. Possibly, Sherlock had never been kissed there before. Not as an adult.

Somehow, all of this didn’t seem quite as improbable to him as it normally would have done. He didn’t understand it, quite. Something had happened. Something that hadn’t made sense before had finally started to click. His bleary, exhausted brain couldn’t parse it. Mike picked up his shirt from where it lay on the floor and slipped it over his shoulders, tucking away skin marked by Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock tried not to pout. He cleared his throat. “You look – that is, um. You look good. Very good. I liked seeing you – your body. Very much.”

He ran a hand over the purpled marks on Mike’s chest , his shoulders. The intimacy of this after-time felt dream-like and surreal. He hoped he would remember the strange quality of it through the haze of his exhaustion.

Mike chuckled, once again affable and charming. “Sherlock, you’re marvelous. Thank you.” He kissed Sherlock again, on the mouth this time, and his lips left a tingling impression in their wake. He buttoned his shirt, stood, pulled on pants and trousers while Sherlock idly watched.

Sherlock himself could barely move. He couldn’t even find it in himself to protest when Mike picked up his own shirt and began to dress him, buttoning his shirt as if he were a child. When they were both fully dressed again, Mike stood and held out his hand.

Sherlock looked up at him stupidly.

“Come on then.” He grasped Sherlock’s hand and pulled him up from where he slumped against the wall. “You look all in. I’ll give you a lift home.”

Sherlock nodded in relief. He could barely imagine walking a block, let alone trying to find a taxi at this hour. But a thought niggled in the back of his mind.

“You go ahead. I’ve got a quick timing adjustment to make in the lab; I’ll meet you in your car in a few minutes.”

Mike smiled and nodded, left quietly.

Sherlock waited exactly one minute to be sure Mike wasn’t coming back, then knelt beside the bin in the corner of the tiny room. He pulled a sterilin specimen bottle from his pocket and scooped up a small sample of the mingled semen from the tissues he retrieved. Only after he had neatly labelled it in careful script and placed it in the CryoMed beside his other samples did he, finally, shut off the lights and lock up the lab.

_SH/MS 29.06.13: Retain for future analysis._

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks as always to my dear betas, redscudery and unreconstructedfangirl. All abuse of semicolons is my fault entirely.  
> This fic was partially written at 221B Con and it broke some serious writer's block for me, so I'm exceedingly fond of it. I'm also totally hot for Stamford. He needs more fics. Sexy ones. Let's get on that. :)


End file.
